


The Many Flatmates of Courfeyrac and Jehan

by Lynchy8



Series: The Life and Times of Enjolras and Grantaire [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, a bit lighter than my usual work, a bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This can be read on its own, but it is part of the 'Life and Times of Enjolras and Grantaire' series (believe it or not)</p><p>Jehan and Courfeyrac need to find a new flatmate but it's not as easy as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Many Flatmates of Courfeyrac and Jehan

**Author's Note:**

> *ahem*  
> Sorry about the last chapter of Part II.  
> Part III is a happy interlude. Enjoy.
> 
> cw for mild homophobia

It was Feuilly who had called the house meeting, which of itself was terribly worrying because they weren’t the sort of flatmates who had house meetings. They were all usually quite tolerant of each other, of their quirks, strengths, idiosyncrasies and short-comings.

Nobody minded when Feuilly left used paint brushes in the kitchen sink along with last night’s washing up. Little was said about the swirls of prose and poetry that were left upon the tiles in a variety of colours whenever Jehan took a bath. It was an unspoken agreement not to mention the steady stream of boys and girls that used to come and go from Courfeyrac’s room, especially now that he and Jehan were making an attempt at a committed relationship and the comings and goings had ceased.

All in all, everything flowed quite well together. So when Feuilly announced that he wanted them all to talk, Courfeyrac and Jehan couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive.

“Look, it’s not like I don’t enjoy living with you guys, because I do,” he said earnestly, looking at the two lost children in front of him who regarded him with big eyes. He sighed as a single tear rolled down Jehan’s cheek.

“Bahorel’s new place is ten minutes on the tube from my work. I’ll save an absolute fortune not travelling across London. It’s too good an opportunity to miss.”

It was true, of course, and they couldn’t really begrudge him that. Three weeks later, they helped him to move his stuff out. But the flat was empty without him. The two boys left behind found their dynamic altered significantly by his absence. Their relationship was too young to risk living alone so soon. They determined to find another housemate with which to share their space.

This would probably not prove too difficult. Both men were amiable, kind and trustworthy. Courfeyrac was broad and built like a rugby player. Jehan said there was poetry to be found in his shoulders. He had recently finished his two year training contract at a law firm and was finally qualified to be a solicitor, something that he was extremely proud of. Jehan shared his pride; he knew how hard his boyfriend had worked to achieve his dream.

Courfeyrac had a big heart which had often gotten him into trouble in the past. In younger years he had confused love with lust and vice versa. He was, however, completely loyal, honourable and warm. He would happily hand over the last shirt off his back were you in need.

Jehan looked at you the way a cat would; silently judging you yet apparently eternally indifferent. However his still waters ran extremely deep. He smiled easily, his movements were graceful and languid. His eyes were in the stars and his heart was on his sleeve.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he would state with the saddest of smiles on his lips, yet he was not incapable of defending himself should the situation require.

He worked in a book shop on the Charing Cross Road, which also held monthly poetry readings in tandem with a café across the road. In his free time he wrote poetry and prose, submitting to poetry magazines for publication.

He smoked Gauloises like the French Resistence. He had long, fine strawberry blonde hair which was usually fixed in a bun or two, hastily impaled with a pencil or biro. He was given to spending long periods wallowing in the bath, smoking and scribbling on the tiles while the lavender scented water around him slowly cooled.

His most prized possession was his gramophone and collection of records. He adored British Dance Bands of the 1920s and 1930s and was often to be found lying upside down on the sofa, lost in the sound of the muted trumpet and the soft hiss of the recordings.

At times of melancholy, Courfeyrac knew how to hold him, to make him feel safe and secure as the rest of the tumbling world threatened to overwhelm him with its chaos. The two got on beautifully together and kept a neat flat.

Feuilly had every confidence in them that they would find a fairly decent flatmate, especially as there was no shortage of prospective tenants in London. They placed an advertisement in the paper and waited for their new flatmate to wander into their lives.

+

Antony was one of Courfeyrac’s old drinking buddies and previous wingman from University. He was something of a terminal student who was not able to cope in the real world. After graduating he had found himself in an office job that allowed him to spend his Fridays and Saturdays in pubs and clubs. At first it was pleasant to have Antony around. He was sociable and boisterous and he and Courfeyrac got on very well, going over old times.

But there was only so many _do you remember when’_ s and _how about the time_ ’s to share before the conversation started to dry up. More than that, the constant requests to go out, to have some fun, to live a little, began to wear on the group.

Working in a bookshop, Jehan kept fairly unpredictable hours and also had to work some weekends. Courfeyrac’s job was incredibly demanding, especially in these important first months after qualifying. Antony scoffed at them.

“You’ve changed, man,” he said with a shake of his head. Courfeyrac frowned.

“I should hope so. I have a job now and responsibilities. I’ve only just completed my training contract which means I can now practise law. In another couple of years I’ll be able to set up my own firm but in the mean time I have to work every hour god sends to earn that right.”

The other man sneered, shrugging his shoulders. Courfeyrac wondered how he had ever thought this man was his friend. He took a purposeful step forward.

“This is important to me.”

Antony moved out.

+

They met Zephyr through the open poetry night at the pub round the corner. She seemed nice enough, though perhaps a little quiet. She had a way of holding out her hand in greeting as though expecting someone to kiss it. She reminded Jehan very strongly of a young Madam Arcati.

It had seemed like a good idea, her moving in, however it quickly became clear that two poets in one flat was one poet too many.

They tried not to judge Zephyr too harshly, they really did. They tried to accommodate her as best they could. But the fact was Jehan was horribly allergic to her joss sticks. She insisted on only eating carrot soup. She boiled up pots and pots of it, filling the freezers for the meals in the weeks ahead. The final straw came when Courfeyrac nearly broke his neck falling over a set of crystals that had been set out on the living room floor. She argued that the negative space needed to be healed. Courfeyrac had failed to see the funny side.

She had to go.

+

“What is he doing in there?” Courfeyrac hissed, absurdly hiding behind Jehan as though for protection.

The pair of them were leaning out of Courfeyrac’s bedroom, staring at the closed door down the hall.

Brian was into computers. He spent all day and all night in his room. The only sign of life was a soft blue glow from under his door. As far as the boys were aware he hadn’t come out to eat or use the bathroom in over a week.

“Maybe he’s building a Cyberman factory?” murmured Jehan, his eyes wide.

Initially they had been grateful that their new flatmate was quiet. They were especially pleased that he didn’t seem to like carrot soup. But as time wore on they began to worry. Surely it wasn’t natural. Surely he had to emerge sometime. The hum of the computer fans kept Jehan up at night. It didn’t seem as though the man knew where the off button was.

Then one morning they woke to a silent flat. Peeping out of Courfeyrac’s room, they saw the door was ajar. Brian had emerged. The room was empty. No computers, no bed clothes, no Brian.

When they got the electricity bill for that quarter Jehan fainted.

+

Paul was very clean. He had said so when he introduced himself.

This should not have been a problem as Jehan had sometimes slept on Joly's floor in his first year at Uni and was naturally a clean spirit any way. The initial clue that something was amiss came the first time they did laundry. Courfeyrac came home to discover that the washing had been set out in alphabetical order on the clothes horse. More to the point, his boxers had been ironed.

Jehan had locked himself in the bathroom for three hours, and Courfeyrac could hear him weeping through the door. When he eventually permitted his boyfriend to enter, his eyes were red raw.

“He matched all my socks,” he mourned, his sad green eyes refilling with tears. Courfeyrac wrapped him in a tight hug, the broken-hearted expression on his boyfriend’s face making it impossible to laugh.

They explained to Paul in no uncertain terms that, while they appreciated the effort he had obviously gone to – especially as it must have taken hours to match them all up - Jehan’s clothes were to be left alone in future. Paul seemed to take this on board and they hoped that would be the end of it.

Two weeks later, Paul took a scourer to the bathroom wall. All of Jehan’s notes, thoughts, quick snippets of poetry and happy scribbles were abolished with a few squirts of bleach.

Jehan was absolutely hysterical, inconsolable. Courfeyrac could hear the shouting match as he turned into the road. His walk became a run at the sound of Jehan’s high-pitched howl of fury. He found Paul hiding in his bedroom while Jehan banged on the door, demanding to be let in so he could rip the heathen apart.

As he held the sobbing young man, he suggested it might be best if Paul left. Paul agreed.

+

Rochelle was a flirt. She flirted with Courfeyrac constantly. She brushed hair out of his eyes, found excuses to have her hands on his biceps, laughed ridiculously at everything Courfeyrac said and was constantly bending over in front of him, or trying to sit on him, or tickling him.

But her worst crime, as far as Jehan was concerned, was the way she called him Jay.

“There are no Jays living in this house,” he had stated matter-of-factly to his boyfriend who held him tight, muttering amused apologies in his ear.

“Of all things, that’s what bothers you the most?” He pressed Jehan’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, his tone incredulous. Jehan let out a theatrical sigh.

“One’s name, one’s identity, one’s being – ” he had begun before Courfeyrac stopped him with a kiss.

“A Jehan by any other name would taste as sweet,” he murmured into his lips.

“Misquoted Shakespeare will get you nowhere,” came the cold response.

Jehan tolerated her with a patient silence. His initial jealously translated angrily into red marker in the bathroom but he trusted his boyfriend.

One afternoon he came home to find them on the sofa. He stood silently in the doorway, about to turn away when Courfeyrac caught his eye. It was a slight movement, almost imperceptible. But Jehan spotted it and stayed put.

“So what were you saying earlier, Rochelle? Sounded like you had a plan to me,” his tone might have been mistaken for seductive if Jehan hadn’t known him so well. He caught how the other man sat sideways, his body apparently facing her but his shoulders were set in such a way that he was actually leaning away from her.

“I think,” she grinned, leaning into his personal space, “that we should have a threesome. You, me and your little boyfriend.” She giggled, girlishly. Jehan felt the heat rise to his cheeks, but Courfeyrac’s hand, slung casually over the back of the sofa, signalled for him to stay silent. He returned Rochelle’s grin, a gleam in his eye.

“I think it would be better, don’t you, if just two of us had sex while the third watched.” Rochelle’s eyes lit up like Christmas trees.

“I knew we were on the same page,” she purred with delight. Courfeyrac laughed and then turned to Jehan.

“What do you think, babe? Shall we let Rochelle watch you fuck me?”

Rochelle suddenly became aware of Jehan’s presence and nearly fell off the sofa in shock. Jehan watched her with his head on one side, apparently considering.

“Oh, I… I’m sorry Jay, I didn’t mean…” she stammered. His glare became colder.

“I don’t think it would work, do you?” he eyed her with a terrible icy stare. She practically ran to her bedroom and started to pack her things.

Jehan loftily made his way to the sofa.

“A dangerous game, my love,” he whispered, offering his fingers for Courfeyrac to suck. A warm hum of appreciation came from the other man.

Later that night, as he collapsed forward on the bed, Jehan fucking him hard, Courfeyrac chuckled to himself. Jehan slapped his arse, fiercely.

“Stop thinking about that girl in our bed,” he admonished.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he groaned into the pillow, “but can you imagine what would have happened if she’d said yes?”

+

Rupert didn’t even move in. They had met for a drink in the pub before hand, had brought him back to the flat to show him round. He had made appreciative sounds when shown the bathroom and the bedroom, had seemed pleased that Courfeyrac was well on the way to becoming a solicitor. So far it had all been very positive.

He was sitting calmly on the sofa as Jehan made Jasmine tea for everyone while they discussed terms. Jehan placed Courfeyrac’s mug of tea on the coffee table and pressed a kiss to his temple.

Rupert froze, his eyes widened. Then they blinked and he was gone with a bang of the front door, leaving them wondering if there were any sane people left in London.

They had excellent sex that night.

+

Sex was undoubtedly the downfall for poor Emily, too.

She had been living with the boys now for four weeks and there seemed to be a good atmosphere in the flat. She was an excellent mix of private and sociable, she didn’t seem that interested in having sex with Courfeyrac (I must be losing my touch, he mused, before ducking out of the way of his boyfriend’s hand) she wasn’t trying to build a Cyberman factory in her bedroom, she didn’t insist that they eat carrot soup for every meal and she didn’t appear to be homophobic at all.

Then it all went to hell one afternoon. Courfeyrac had decided to take some time off work and he and Jehan were enjoying a particularly intimate moment.

The guys were enthusiastic lovers. They tried to be respectful of their flatmates and attempted to keep the noise at a minimum but the fact was Jehan was passionate about everything he did while Courfeyrac was, well, Courfeyrac. Loud and Proud were practically his middle names.

More to the point, two Thursdays previously during a poetry recital at Jehan’s bookshop, Courfeyrac had discovered how much he loved listening to his boyfriend’s voice, especially when he fucked him against a wall, or over a table or in the bathroom of said bookshop.

“I fear no fate… for you are my fate – fuck – my sweet,” Jehan gasped, hands braced against the headboard, Courfeyrac’s firm hands clasped at his waist, holding him in place as he thrust steadily, mercilessly forward.

“I want no world for – fuck, Courf, please,” he was beginning to unravel, lost in words and in sensation.

“Keep going,” the other man murmured into his shoulder, biting the soft skin there, causing him to keen backwards. “The next line, ‘I want no world’”

The young man continued unsteadily, voice wrecked, eyes closed, words tumbling from his red lips.

“for beautiful you are my world, my true,” he let out a loud groan as he finished the line.

Suddenly the bedroom door banged open and an enraged Emily crashed into the room.

“I swear to god, if I have to hear you guys fuck your way through another e e cummings poem I am going to get violent,” she shouted.

Courfeyrac didn’t even pause.

“Shut the door on your way out,” he called amiably over his shoulder.

“Go on, my love, what’s the next line?” he coaxed.

When they emerged from the bedroom some hours later, she was already gone.

+

They were losing hope. Seven unsuccessful flatmates had left the boys feeling decidedly dejected. They wondered if they were going about this the wrong way. Jehan stayed up all night drawing up a list of questions to ask people who wanted to live with them. In the morning, Courfeyrac read this list, laughing heartily as he sipped his coffee before heading to work.

“Brilliant,” he said, pressing a kiss to Jehan’s temple. “If that doesn’t work,” and here he became serious, crouching down so his face was level with Jehan, “maybe we should think about finding a smaller flat. Maybe we’re not meant to have a flatmate.”

Jehan nodded. Once last try.

+

Jehan was just about to leave for work when his phone rang.

“Please, for the love of all that I don’t believe in, tell me the room is still available!” The voice at the other end sounded harassed but amiable and Jehan smiled in spite of himself.

“It is,” he confirmed, mildly. He heard a sigh of delight down the line.

“Oh thank fuck for that. It’s mine. I claim it!” the voice was jubilant, as though it had just been awarded some sort of prize. Jehan found himself laughing.

“Well, hang on, you haven’t even seen it.” he protested. 

“Don’t care. It could be a cupboard as far as I’m concerned. I’m not even sure about the requirement for windows and a door at this stage.” The voice was completely serious. “Do you know you’re the forty-second person I’ve rung today about rooms for rent?” the voice accelerated into a high pitched growl of frustration that made Jehan giggle all the harder, but he forced himself to be serious.

“Well, now, forty-two is one of my favourite numbers. Best in the universe in fact,” he paused to allow the voice at the other end to chortle in appreciation. “However, we haven’t met you either.”

“I assure you, I’m the perfect flatmate,” the voice sounded indignant at the very idea but Jehan was firm. He insisted that they arrange meet at the pub at the end of the road so they could discuss terms and have the opportunity to ask questions. Then they’d go from there. The voice cheerfully agreed.

“By the way, I’m Jehan,” he offered. There was a small pause.

“Pleased to know you, Jehan. I’m Grantaire.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Guys! Guess who is back in the country?!
> 
> I promise, Part IV will have us back on the straight and narrow.
> 
> I've had this in my head from the very beginning so it's lovely to finally be able to post it. These two are such a nice couple to write for - Jehan in the bath is literally one my favourite things (shh, no one tell R)
> 
> A few reference points;
> 
> Madam Arcati is the medium in Noel Coward's "Blithe Spirit" which is a brilliant play if you've never seen it. Margaret Rutherford is widely accepted as the definitive portrayal of Madam Arcati in the film of the same name. You should definitely give it a go if you haven't. That goes for all Noel Coward plays.
> 
> The e e cummings poem Jehan is *ahem* reciting is [i carry your heart with me( i carry it in]
> 
> And finally, 42. Well, I had to squidge it in there somewhere! Whatever you do, don't panic (and always make sure you carry your towel)  
> x


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